Split 2
by Mummyluvr
Summary: The sequel to Split duh!. Dean's been having some issues since being put back together, and another explosion brings new problems for the Winchester boys!
1. Chapter 1

Woohoo! Sequel time! This, in case you haven't figured it out, is the sequel to my last story, "Split." I strongly suggest that you read that one first. So, here we go. Oh, yeah, a little language in this one, but not too bad :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing! Except for the idea... I guess... not the characters, though. :(

* * *

The voices. The damned voices. His, both of them, but one just wasn't right. It couldn't really be his, could it? The things it said sometimes, they caught him off-guard, scared him. The worst part was that he couldn't tell anyone, not even his brother. How do you tell someone that there's a war being waged in your head and you can't control it?

Sighing, Dean turned to look at the sleeping form of his brother in the motel room's other bed. Instant rage flashed through his head, brining with it the unwanted urge to grab the knife from under his pillow and slash his brother's throat.

The older man shuddered, turning back to look at the wall. The feeling passed almost instantly. He had no idea what was happening to him, just knew that it had something to do with the explosion that had shaken him so badly almost a month before.

His brother had had a dream, as Sam often did, and it had led them to a hospital. It was in the room of a psycho that the explosion had taken place, the explosion that had literally split Dean in two. He'd been put back together, obviously, but was still far from normal.

The remorse he'd felt for the terrible things his darker side had done was to be expected. After all, he'd remembered every heinous murder the evil man had committed. He'd also remembered every emotional breakdown his better half had had, which made matters even worse. Murder was something he could deal with, weakness was not.

But that was only the half of it. Since leaving the small town of Onyx, Montana, behind them, Dean had had a kind of mental war going on. An evil, sneering voice in his head told him to do things, kill people, and sometimes it just took control. Bad things happened.

Other times, he'd found himself on the verge of tears for no apparent reason, and that evil voice had spoken up in his mind, said some awful things, and brought him closer to a meltdown.

Sighing, Dean closed his eyes, hoping desperately for sleep to come. It seemed like it had been ages since he'd gotten a decent night's sleep. He was plagued by dreams of his evil half's adventures, experiencing cold-blooded murder every night as his brother slept soundly.

Slowly, the sound of Sam's soft snoring began to fade, and the older hunter drifted off to sleep, an evil voice in his head laughing maniacally as darkness took him.


	2. Chapter 2

All right. A couple of reviews. It's a good start, and I really hope that everyone enjoys the sequel.

* * *

"Please, no," the girl muttered as he drew closer, a sly smirk plastered across his face as the knife gleamed in the light thrown by the lamps. Metallica blared from the CD player he'd swiped from one of his victim's houses. This girl would soon be added to the list. He'd take her money just as he'd taken her virginity, and would take her life.

All in all, it had been a good day. He'd met Ellen at the town's small café that morning, had charmed her, and gotten her into the motel room. They'd had fun, lots of it, even when the spoilsport in the next room over had banged on the wall and yelled at him to turn down the music. Like that would happen.

He'd tied the girl to the bed, told her it would be fun, and pulled the knife as soon as she was secure. He looked at the knife, his weapon of choice, and the smirk widened into a full-on smile. This part was his favorite, even better than the sex.

"Honey, scream all you want," he cooed, placing the knife lightly at her throat, "because no one can hear you. You're all mine."

With a quick flick of his wrist, he slit her throat, her final scream piercing through the music and fading into a gargle as she bled out. Still smiling, he cut across her stomach. Her eyes rolled wildly in her head, telling the murderer that she was still alive, which made everything even more fun.

Finally, after he'd finished carving her like a jack-o-lantern, she died. He sighed, sticking the knife in his back pocket, and calmly exited the room. He heard a door swing open behind him as he crossed the parking lot to his car, sunglasses perched atop his head.

"Oh," he grinned, "hey, Sammy."

"Dean," his brother replied, "what was that?"

"That was Ellen."

"What did you do to her?" The tone of the younger man's voice implied that he already knew, but felt obliged to ask.

"I had to cut her loose, Sammy. Her usefulness had ended."

"How'd you, um, cut her loose?"

Dean smirked, pulling the knife from his pocket and wiping it quickly across his bloody shirt. "With this."

"You killed her," Sam marveled as he followed his brother to the Impala, "you stabbed her to death. You've been killing those girls all along."

"Right-o, college boy."

"Dean, something happened. There was an accident when the hospital blew up. This isn't you."

Slowly, Dean turned to look at his little brother, anger bubbling within him. He wanted nothing more than to end his own suffering and slash at the younger man with the knife he still held in his hand, but that would ruin all the fun that torture could provide. He took a deep breath, and chose his words carefully.

"I'm free now," he muttered, "if that's a problem for you and goody-two-shoes in there it's just too bad."

"But we can fix it," Sam argued, "things can go back to the way they were."

"I don't think so," Dean said, elbowing his pesky little brother in the stomach before bringing the handle of the knife down hard on his head. Sam fell to the floor, a small trickle of blood dampening his shaggy hair.

Smirking, Dean unlocked the car door and slid in behind the wheel. Yes, torture was definitely a good idea. But how best to do it?

The hunter jumped away, biting his tongue to stifle a scream. His heart was pounding with the thrill of the kill, his adrenaline pumping, his mind racing with a number of terrible things he could do to Sam before going in for the kill. The images, the memories, the dream, it was so vivid. He shook his head, hoping to clear the murderous thoughts running through his brain.

"I'd never do that," he muttered quietly, "never. He's my brother, and I'd die for him. I couldn't hurt him. Could I?"

The question was there. Could he? Should he? He could try, oh yes, he could try. There were some terrible things he could do to the man asleep in the other bed, the one that had walked out on him, the one that had left him alone. He could abandon him, for instance. Tie him up in a sewer somewhere and just walk away. Later on, he could go back, untie Sam once he had weakened, and plunge the knife deep into the younger man's chest. Oh, and how Sammy would _scream_.

"No," he mumbled, running his hands through his hair and back over his face. He pulled them away, wet with the tears that were freely falling for no reason Dean could comprehend. What was happening to him?

"Pull it together, Dean," he whispered, swiping at his eyes, "Sammy needs you on this one. Just keep it together. For Sam, all right?"

He sighed. They'd traveled to Elkhorn, Nebraska to get rid of a pesky ghost in a house there, then traveled out to one of the state parks, where a lone vampire was causing trouble. After that, they'd headed to Oklahoma to take care of a resilient werewolf that almost seemed immune to silver. They were planning on getting rid of it that night, after a good day's sleep. If only he could get one.

The wolf changed in a warehouse on the outskirts of town, the boys knew that much, and were planning on killing it as soon as it had turned. Because killing people was wrong.

_No, not wrong,_ the smooth voice that sounded freakishly like his own said, _fun. It's fun to watch them suffer and die. You know you want to._

"Sam says it's wrong to kill people," Dean muttered, "and I believe him."

_Only part of you believes him, Dean,_ the voice replied, _but part of you wants to have some fun. Come on, who'll it hurt? Sammy? Who needs him?_

"I do." The tears, again unbidden, began to flow freely, and he wiped them away. He just had to keep it together until the wolf was gone, them he would start the research, find out what had gone wrong when they'd blown the hospital in Onyx sky high a second time.

In the other bed, Sam stirred. Dean glanced over at him, anger flashing briefly in his haunted hazel eyes. His hand strayed toward the pillow, reached under it. Fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife. It would be so easy to end it, to be free again. With Sammy out of the way, no one would be there to stop him.

Yawning, Sam sat up and looked around. "You sleep OK?" he asked, apparently not noticing the sudden fear etched across his brother's face.

"Uh, yeah," Dean replied, slipping the weapon back under his pillow and fighting back another bout of tears, "fine. You?"

"I'd be a lot better if it was dark, but yeah. I'm all right. You ready for this?"

Dean just nodded. "That overgrown puppy's not gonna know what hit him."


	3. Chapter 3

Well, it's time for another update. Thanks again to everyone who's reviewed!

* * *

Not only was the werewolf not as allergic to silver as each of its counterparts that the boys had faced, it was fast. They ran through the warehouse, the wolf at their heels, trying desperately to come up with a Plan B.

"Any bright ideas?" Sam asked as they ran, the pads of the werewolf's feet horribly close behind them, "because I'm all out."

"Don't look at me," Dean replied, "unless you think you can pump it full of silver before it bites one of us, I'm as clueless as you."

But he wasn't, because there was a large gas tank in the corner of the warehouse, gleaming sliver in the light thrown by the full moon. Dean looked at the gun in is hands, and then at the tank. If he shot it, there would be a fiery explosion, and he and his brother might not make it out. If he didn't shoot it, the wolf would wear them out and they were toast for sure. It was worth a try, wasn't it?

_Oh, yes,_ the silky smooth, evil voice said, _it's worth it. Blow the bitch sky high, and maybe you'll kill the wolf, too._

It only took the hunter a moment to decide that he had no other choice. He would just have to push his brother out of the way, maybe use his own body as a shield. Death was beginning to look good as opposed to spending the rest of his life trying to referee his mental war.

Turning as he ran, he aimed the gun. Sam barely glanced at him as he fired, hitting the gas tank with the bullet without a problem.

"Duck!" Dean shouted, grabbing his brother's arm and pulling him down, realizing that it would be more than easy to shoot him dead at this distance. As the thought passed, the tank exploded, engulfing the room in angry fire with a bellowing roar. He hit the floor as the heat pushed him over, feeling like he would lose his lunch, even though he hadn't eaten that day.

Something deep in his gut tugged, pulling painfully away, disconnecting as the fire roared overhead. The last thing Dean was aware of was landing on Sam and hoping that the younger man wasn't hurt. If he was, it would be bad. He never wanted to hurt his little brother. Then, peaceful darkness.

Sam was the first to wake up, as he had been in the last explosion his brother had saved him from. That had been almost a month ago, and Dean still hadn't seemed to have fully recovered. He was quiet, restless, and suffered frequent mood swings.

Currently, though, none of that mattered, as he was passed out on top of his little brother. With a grunt, Sam pushed the older man off and looked around the warehouse. Whatever had possessed Dean to shoot the gas tank, he was glad it had. The wolf lay in a pool of blood near the remnants of the tank, no longer breathing. The hunt was over.

Sighing, Sammy picked himself up off the floor and brushed off some of the dust that had settled on his skin and clothing. On the ground, Dean stirred, moving his head and mumbling something the younger man couldn't quite understand.

"Come on, Dean," he smiled, helping his brother up and wrapping one arm around the older man to get him out of the warehouse, "fire department will be here any minute."

Dean looked at his brother, confusion in his eyes. "It's gone," he mumbled softly, "the voice. I can look…" He trailed off, his head dropping onto his chest and Sam carried his from the wreckage.

The brothers walked into the dirt lot where they'd left the Impala parked to find that it was no longer there. "What the hell?" Sam muttered as Dean moaned and moved a little.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"For what?" Sam asked, still scanning the lot for their car, which seemed to have magically disappeared.

"Explosion. You could have been hurt. Bad."

"Hey, you killed the wolf. Besides, I'm fine."

"You sure?" Dean asked weakly, his head beginning to droop again, "because I couldn't stand it if something happened to you because of me."

"I'm fine," Sam reiterated, abandoning his search for the car and deciding to walk back to the room, which, luckily, wasn't too far from the warehouse. They could look for the Impala after the sun came up. "I think someone took your car," he muttered, though he was pretty sure Dean was out of it again.

The older man shook his head slowly. "I took it," he muttered, his speech slightly slurred as he hovered on the brink of unconsciousness, "had to have been me."

"Whatever, man," Sammy whispered, adjusting his brother's weight and heading for the room.

The wind rushed through the open window, the radio blared the classics, and the driver couldn't have been happier. He was free, and that was all that mattered to him. Free of his past, free of his future, and free of his better half. He could finally do what he'd always wanted to.

He knew for a fact that he couldn't go after Sam as long as the younger man had his bodyguard. Shoot the good one, and the bad one dies, too. The only catch of the split. But he had another plan, a better one.

He would find their father, which wouldn't be hard. All he had to do was pull out his cell and call the man with disturbing news about poor Sammy, who had, what, maybe broken his neck? Yeah, that would work.

John would come running, and when he got to the motel room, he would find his oldest son, neglected and abused, waiting for him with a coil of rope. After that, he would finally be able to speak his mind. His father didn't need him, and Dean didn't need his father. One of them had to go, and it would undoubtedly be Johnny.

Dean smirked. The old man didn't stand a chance against his perfect little soldier.


	4. Chapter 4

Well, it's happened again, and gotten a few nice rewiews, so here's another chapter of "Split 2."

* * *

"That was some blast, huh?" Sam asked as Dean came to in the room.

"Just like in Onyx," Dean nodded, "only, this time, I'm pretty sure I'm all here."

Sammy shrugged. "No murderous nut job, so we're probably fine. I'm pretty sure I would have noticed another you running around when we left the warehouse."

"I killed the wolf?"

"Yeah, you killed the wolf."

"But I almost got us killed."

"You did what you had to do," Sam smiled, "I would have done the same. We got the wolf, and that's all that matters. You saved a lot of people."

"She was a person, Sam," Dean pointed out, hanging his head, "it's not like she asked to get bitten. I killed an innocent person."

"She wasn't innocent. She'd killed people. The wolf had to die, Dean, and…" He trailed off, watching his brother closely. The sheets had been pulled up to the older man's chin when he'd been placed in the bed, and when he'd sat up they'd fallen down to his waist. It looked as if there were small wet spots on the sheet, almost like tears, but that wasn't possible. It was Dean, and Dean never cried. Well, except for that time in Onyx, but that had been different. That hadn't really been Dean. "You all right?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Stressed, I guess. And hungry. We got anything left to eat?"

Sam turned to inspect the single grocery bag that held all of the food they had left. He looked into the small mirror that hung opposite the beds and cocked his head in confusion at what he saw. Dean was wiping his eyes.

"You sure you're all right?"

"I said I was fine and I am. What've we got to eat?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. I can run to the store and grab some stuff, but it won't be much until we can find the car."

"All right," Dean grinned, throwing the covers off and standing up. He wobbled a little, and grabbed his head, where, Sam assumed from the look on his face, a headache was forming.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"With you," Dean shrugged, putting a hand on the wall to steady himself, "we're gonna go get something to eat."

"You need to take it easy," Sam said, gently pushing his brother back into the bed and pulling the covers up over him, "I think you hit your head or something. I'll go get the food. You just stay here."

"No, really," his brother argued, sitting up quickly and bringing his hands up to his head as pain throbbed throughout it and the room spun, "I'm fine. I'm coming with."

"You have a headache?"

"Yeah, but it's no big deal. I guess I just hit my head."

"But you don't remember hitting your head?"

"No. Why?"

Sam closed his eyes. He remembered the situation. The headache, the odd, un-Dean-like behavior. It was a repeat of what had happened after the first explosion in Onyx. "Dean," he began slowly, "are you sure you're all right?"

"Of course I'm all right, Sam."

"Call me Sammy."

"Why would I do that? You hate that name."

Sam sat on his bed and rested his head in his hands. "Oh, boy," he muttered, "Dean, have you been feeling any different since the explosion."

Dean shrugged. "Well, I guess. I mean, that little voice in the back of my head that told me to kill you every time I looked at you is gone. Good riddance, I say. Why?"

Sam stared at him, assessing him. Dean looked the same as he always had, but with one difference, something so small and insignificant that the younger hunter was surprised he'd even been able to pick up on it. The older man looked _softer_. His eyes had lost their familiar edge, his features, though exactly the same as they had been a week before, seemed somehow kinder. Sammy had a sneaking suspicion that he knew why, but was desperately hoping that he was wrong.

"Dean," he sighed, getting his brother's attention, "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Dean asked, narrowing his eyes in confusion, "you haven't done anything."

"Yet," the younger hunter whispered, carefully avoiding his brother's eyes. He took a deep breath and began to lie. "I've kind of been in touch with my friends from school, and, um, they miss me. In fact, they're willing to let me stay with them there until I can strike out on my own again. They've also offered to help with homework and whatever else I need. I'm, uh, I'm seriously considering it."

"Seriously?" Dean asked, tears welling in his newly softened eyes.

Sam nodded. "It's what I've always wanted. I started packing last week, and now that the wolf's dead, I figure I can set out early tomorrow."

The tears had started flowing, and it didn't look like Dean was trying to stop them. He was sobbing, too, swiping furiously at his eyes while his breath hitched in his throat. "Really, Sam?"

Sammy nodded again, watching, horrified, as his older brother's face crumpled and he really broke down. Dean buried his face in his hands as his whole body heaved with the raw emotion he was usually so determined to hide.

That was all that the younger man needed to see to confirm his fears. Feeling worse than he ever had in his life, he sank onto the bed beside his brother. "I'm sorry," he muttered, wrapping an arm around the older man and pulling him into a hug. Dean didn't resist.

"You said," Dean sobbed, returning the hug and grabbing roughly on to his brother's shirt, "you would leave."

"I know," Sam whispered back as Dean buried his hand in the younger man's shoulder and continued to cry, "I lied. I'm staying right here, man, I'm staying right here."

"Why would you lie?" The question was muffled, but still understandable. The hurt and confusion in the hunter's voice could be clearly heard, too.

"I had to know, Dean. It happened again, man. You split."

"What?"

Sam pulled away, something that was harder to do than it should have been, and stared at his brother. "What happened in that explosion? Did you feel anything weird?"

Dean shook his head. "There was a feeling. Like someone pulled something out of me, and I guess the same thing happened in Onyx, but…"

Sam stood up and began to pace the room. He shook his head, his hair flapping around his face. The situation in Onyx had been different, the explosion caused by a man with two personalities. It had been the man's energy that had split Dean, but this time there hadn't been a crazy man in a hospital bed. Just him, his brother, and a werewolf, who had seemed perfectly sane when they'd talked to her during the day. Would any explosion trigger the split now? Or was there something else.

"You said you'd been hearing a voice," Sam said, whirling around to face his brother, "one that told you to kill. Whose voice was it?"

Dean just shrugged. "Mine, but different. It sounded almost evil."

"When we put you back together in Onyx," Sammy nodded, "you tried to kill me. I thought it was just the evil half dying. Kind of a last ditch thing. But it didn't die, did it? We put your body back together, but not your mind. At least, not completely."

"So that murderer's out there again?" He looked close to tears again.

Sam sat down on the bed beside his brother and wrapped a comforting arm around the older man's shoulders. "I guess. But we put you back together once, we can do it again, right?"

"It didn't work right last time."

"Well, we'll try something new this time."

"What?"

"We'll think of something, Dean, we always do. Now, any idea who that freak show with your face might have a grudge against?"

Dean shrugged again. "He's been spending the past month trying to get me to kill you, but he didn't attack back in the warehouse. _I _can't think of anyone I'd wanna kill. I'm not even sure why he wanted _you _dead."

"Think harder. Anyone who's made you mad, or," he chuckled, "maybe insulted you in some way. I dunno. Anyone come to mind?"

Silence fell in the room as both brothers thought, Dean about past relationships and rivals, and Sam about the situation at hand. If there was someone out there who'd wronged Dean in some fashion, both Winchesters hoped that the evil man either didn't remember, or that he had enough mercy left in him to spare their lives. Neither seemed possible.

A thought occurred to both at the same instant, shocking them both from the tableau and even causing Dean to jump. "Cassie!"

"We need to call her," Sam said as his brother sprang from the bed and began digging through his pockets.

"I can't find my phone."

"Are your car keys gone?"

Dean nodded. "I could have sworn I had them, but they're not here. Your cell's charged, right?"

Sam handed over the phone and watched his brother's shaking fingers dial the number from memory. How Dean had remembered the number of the first woman ever to dump him, the younger man would probably never know.

"Cassie? It's Dean. Listen, this is really important. Have I called you yet today?" There was a small pause as he listened. "No, other than now. No? Good, that's good. Am I there?" Another pause. "Yes, I'm serious. This is urgent! Am I there?" Pause. "Good. If I knock on your door, don't answer, especially if I'm alone and wearing black, OK? And if you see me walking down the street, whatever you do, don't stop to talk. Just stay away from me for a while, all right?" There was another pause. "Yeah, it's supernatural, but there's no time to explain. Just stay inside and lock your doors. OK. I love you." he hung up the phone and sighed, sitting back down on the bed.

"Anyone else?"

"Are you kidding?" Dean grinned, "she's the only one blind enough to break up with someone as handsome as me."

Sam chuckled. "All right. I guess we just lay low for a while, watch the news for any suspicious murders, and hope that he shows his ugly face."

"My face isn't ugly."

"Oh, yes it is. You just don't know it because you're as blind as Cassie."

Dean smiled. "Thanks, man."

"For what?"

"Just being here, even after all of this. Most people would have left by now. I mean, who in their right mind would want to spend so much time with a freak like me, especially one who keeps splitting into a murderer and a crybaby?"

"Hey, I'm a freak, too, remember? The Psychic Wonder. I'm right there with you, all the way." Both brothers were smiling, though neither knew exactly why.


	5. Chapter 5

All right. Chapter 5 is here, along with all of the character that we know and love. And John. John's here, too. Hope you enjoy it :)

* * *

Running a hand over his weathered face, John knocked on the door of the motel room. "Who is it?" a familiar voice called from inside. The tone annoyed John more than anything else, but he figured that his oldest son was just stressed. After what had apparently happened to Sam, the hunter couldn't blame him.

"It's me, Dean, open up."

"Who's me?"

"Dean, I'm not kidding. Open the door."

"What's the password?"

"Dammit, Dean, I said open up!"

"Don't throw a hissy fit, I'm coming." The door was pulled open with great force, causing it to squeal on its hinges. "Man, dad, you were the one who told me to be sure about a person's identity before opening the door. Remember my top priority? _Take care of Sammy_?"

"Dean, move. Just let me in the room." John pushed past his son and gazed around the empty room, confused. Sam was nowhere in sight. "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Sam. Where's Sam? You said he was in trouble, Dean, you told me he was hurt bad, now what happened?"

"Oh. That." Dean closed the door, locking it, and ushered his father into the room. "There was an explosion. We were fighting a werewolf and the warehouse it changed in just blew up. I pulled Sam out of the fire, and I gave him CPR, and he came back, but he was weak."

"So you took him to a hospital?"

"No," Dean smirked, grabbing a coil of rope from the bed nearest the door and approaching his father, who was still surveying the room, "I put him out of his misery. I stabbed him, dad. In the heart. Several times. And he screamed, oh, he screamed so loud. You wanna know what I did after that? I slit his throat. I slit his wrists. And then I pulled him out into a field to rot."

John turned, terror in his eyes, his face drawn and pale. He saw the rope in Dean's hands and tensed, his eyes sharp, but no longer panicky. "You're not my son."

"Not all of him," Dean replied, still smirking, "just the part you raised with your own brand of tender, loving care. I'm your perfect little soldier, dad, but I've finally decided to go AWOL."

John reached for the pocket of his jacket, but Dean was faster. He grabbed the knife he'd taken from the car. Taking the blade in his hand, he whacked his father over the head, sending the older man tumbling to the ground.

Sam gasped and sat up in bed, looked wildly at his brother. _Their father_. Neither of them had considered the fact that John could be on Dean's list of enemies. Because of their oversight, the man that had raised them could be close to death.

Silently, Sammy slid his cell phone from his pocket and dialed his father's number. "Dad," he whispered, "it's Sam. If Dean calls, don't believe him. Something bad happened. Just don't listen to him, OK? I'll explain everything later. We need to meet up. We're staying in Oklahoma tonight, but we'll be traveling tomorrow. I'll call you later to give you the location. Just don't believe a word he says, all right? It's important. Life or death. Bye."

He turned off the phone and gazed at the other bed, at his brother who was sleeping peacefully. It had been a long time since he'd seen Dean sleep like that, like the world was gone, and the night would never end. He was always alert, always searching for evil, and in the past month his sleep patterns had been off. He hadn't been sleeping at all, most nights. But now the voice was gone, and the nights were peaceful again.

Sam looked at the phone in his hand, thought about the dream he'd had, and glanced back at his brother. Dean deserved at least one good night's sleep. Besides, if the vision came true, they would know. Dean's hand would start to bleed.

Lying back in the bed, Sam closed his eyes, hoping for a dreamless rest of the night.

He glanced down at the caller id as he sped down the highway. _Sam_. But Sam had been hurt, Dean had said so when he'd called earlier that night. He was probably just using Sam's phone to call, to remind the man behind the wheel of the truck to hurry. He didn't need a reminder, though, he needed his truck to go faster. He needed to be there for his youngest son.

John Winchester crossed the state line between Kansas, where he'd been busy hunting down a troublesome ghost, and Oklahoma, where Dean had told him they were staying. He sped up, hoping to get to the Rusty Nail Motel in time to help his boys.

"A dream?" Dean asked as Sam shoved the various odds and ends they'd unpacked back into the duffel bag, "why didn't you tell me about it last night?"

Sam shrugged, zipping up the bag and throwing it over his shoulder. "I didn't want to worry you. I figured we'll have enough time to prevent it, and it looked like you were finally getting a good night's sleep. Dad'll be fine. He can take care of himself, right?"

"I guess. At least we know what the other me's up to now. I can't believe he'd want to go after dad, though. I mean, why?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm not sure. But he's still in Oklahoma, in the Rusty Nail Motel. I looked it up early this morning, and it's not exactly walking distance from here."

"How do we get there?"

"We could hitchhike."

Dean grinned. "No offense, man, but the last time anyone in this family tried to hitchhike, you met Meg."

"Well, we could steal a car."

The good-hearted grin faded fast. "Stealing's wrong."

Sam chuckled, glancing at his brother and finding himself suddenly reminded of the current situation. Even though his brother had been the one to teach him how to hotwire a car, Dean apparently wasn't in a grand theft auto mood at the moment.

"All right," Sam sighed, "how about you just sit here and I'll come around with some means of transportation. You don't ask about it, and I won't tell you. That way, no guilty conscience. Everyone wins."

Dean seemed to consider for a moment before finally nodding in consent. "I guess. But-"

"I'll be back. I promise."

The older man's smile reappeared, though a little shaky at first, and Sam felt comfortable leaving.


	6. Chapter 6

Time ofr another update. let's hope nothing bad happens to the boys. Johyn, I don't care about so much, but Sam and Dean? Anyway, hope everyone likes it :)

* * *

Running a hand over his weathered face, John knocked on the door of the motel room. "Who is it?" a familiar voice called from inside. The tone annoyed John more than anything else, but he figured that his oldest son was just stressed. After what had apparently happened to Sam, the hunter couldn't blame him.

"It's me, Dean, open up."

"Who's me?"

"Dean, I'm not kidding. Open the door."

"What's the password?"

"Dammit, Dean, I said open up!"

"Don't throw a hissy fit, I'm coming." The door was pulled open with great force, causing it to squeal on its hinges. "Man, dad, you were the one who told me to be sure about a person's identity before opening the door. Remember my top priority? _Take care of Sammy_?"

"Dean, move. Just let me in the room." John pushed past his son and gazed around the empty room, confused. Sam was nowhere in sight. "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Sam. Where's Sam? You said he was in trouble, Dean, you told me he was hurt bad, now what happened?"

"Oh. That." Dean closed the door, locking it, and ushered his father into the room. "There was an explosion. We were fighting a werewolf and the warehouse it changed in just blew up. I pulled Sam out of the fire, and I gave him CPR, and he came back, but he was weak."

"So you took him to a hospital?"

"No," Dean smirked, grabbing a coil of rope from the bed nearest the door and approaching his father, who was still surveying the room, "I put him out of his misery. I stabbed him, dad. In the heart. Several times. And he screamed, oh, he screamed so loud. You wanna know what I did after that? I slit his throat. I slit his wrists. And then I pulled him out into a field to rot."

John turned, terror in his eyes, his face drawn and pale. He saw the rope in Dean's hands and tensed, his eyes sharp, but no longer panicky. "You're not my son."

"Not all of him," Dean replied, still smirking, "just the part you raised with your own brand of tender, loving care. I'm your perfect little soldier, dad, but I've finally decided to go AWOL."

John reached for the pocket of his jacket, but Dean was faster. He grabbed the knife he'd taken from the car. Taking the blade in his hand, he whacked his father over the head, sending the older man tumbling to the ground.

"Ow!" Dean drew his hand away from his lap as if he'd been burnt. A thin line of blood ran across his palm, dripping onto his jeans. "Sam, I think we have a problem."

Sam glanced away from the road and moaned. It had happened. "Try calling dad again," he suggested, "maybe it's not too late. Maybe he cut his hand some other way."

Dean nodded, though it was obvious that he didn't believe a word his brother had said. Slowly, he took the phone in his good hand and dialed the number. He put the phone to his ear and waited, chewing distractedly on his lip.

"Dad, it's-" Fear dawned in his eyes and he nodded slowly, pushing the button for speaker phone and laying the phone on his lap.

"Let me guess," the harsh voice chuckled from the other end, "Psychic Boy had another wonderful vision? Figures."

"Where's our father?" Sam asked, stepping on the gas and silently urging the tiny blue car he'd taken to go faster.

"Oh, he's right here with me. He says hi, by the way. Or, at least, he would, if he could talk. See, I slit his throat, and-"

"That's a lie," Dean snapped, his softened eyes hardening to their old intensity for a brief moment, "you want to torture him first. Sam saw it."

"You still believe him? What is it with you and this blind faith you seem to have in the people that surround you. They don't need you, they'll all leave you, so why depend on them like that? Sam's lying. He just told you what you wanted to hear so he could avoiding watching a failure like you breakdown again. He-"

"We know where you are," Sam interrupted as his brother shuddered I the seat beside him, "and we're not going to let you kill our father."

"Spoken like a true favorite child," the evil voice sneered, "well, if you must come rescue him, could you at least wait until me and daddy can have a little heart-to-heart? See, I've got some stuff I've been waiting 27 years to tell the man, and now that I have the chance… oh, I do believe he's waking up. See ya, boys."

The phone clicked, and fell silent. The brothers just stared at it for a moment, taking it in.

"He'll let him live," Dean muttered, wrapping the bottom of his white shirt around the bloody slash on his hand, "I wouldn't kill dad. Never. I _couldn't_. I love him too much to do that. Right?" He looked at Sam for confirmation, but the younger man wasn't paying attention. He was too busy wondering how fast the small blue Toyota could go.

_The last time this happened to him,_ Sam thought to himself, staring fixedly at the road stretching out ahead of him, _he killed seven women. He tried to kill me._ He glanced back at his brother. _He'll kill dad if we give him the chance, and he knows it. Deep down, even the good one knows what the evil one's capable of. And it scares him._


	7. Chapter 7

Well, it's time to see what happens to John!

* * *

John opened his eyes slowly. He'd had the worst dream. Something that looked like his oldest son had tricked him, tied him up, and made him think that Sammy was dead. Not the best night's sleep he'd ever gotten. He even had a headache.

"Good to see you're finally awake," a sinister, yet familiar, voice said from behind him. John tried to turn, but found that he'd been tied tightly into a chair, his wrists and ankles bound painfully.

"What are you?" he demanded as the thing that looked like his son came into view, smirking.

"Why, I'm your son," the thing answered, hunkering down in front of the chair and looking John in the eyes, "don't you recognize me, dad?"

The old hunter looked the thing square in the face, hoping that he was successfully hiding his astonishment. Whatever it was, it looked exactly like Dean, but rougher around the edges. The face was the same, but the eyes were harsh, and something stirred just beneath the hazel surface. It was something evil.

"That's impossible," John said, shaking his pounding head, "you're not Dean. Dean wouldn't do this to me. Now, just tell me what you really are, and I get on with kicking your ass."

"Watch the mouth, there, dad. Wouldn't want your kids to talk like that, would you? Remember that time when I was six and you caught me cussing at my shoes for not coming untied? Boy, you really let me have it that time. I got my mouth washed out with soap, a spanking, and I was grounded for a week. Just for cussing out my sneaks. Now, I _know_ I'd heard you say worse around me and Sammy. Why set a bad example?"

The hunter was temporarily taken aback. _He_ could barely remember that incident, so how could this shape shifter, or whatever it was, possibly know about it. Unless…

"What happened, son?" John asked, just hoping for an answer, "did something get to you? Or are you just lying?"

The thing with his son's face smirked again, standing up and walking around the chair. "There was an accident, dad, at a warehouse. I was telling the truth about that. Sammy hauled his ass out, left mine behind. I've got plans for him, too. Maybe we'll have a little reunion before I kill you both. But I digress. This explosion did something wonderful to me, dad. It set me free. I can finally do whatever I want without fear. There's no holding back now. I don't have listen to any more of Sammy's whining or follow any of your orders. I'm _free_."

"Sam wouldn't have left without you-"

"Oh, he left with me. Just not the me you're talking to. See, it's kind of a long story that I really don't have the time to recount right now because, even as we speak, your two wonderful sons are rushing here to save you."

"Two sons? I thought _you_ were Dean."

The thing grinned, an expression so filled with malice that John barely suppressed a shudder. "I am. I'm _your_ Dean, the one you trained relentlessly from the time that mom died. I'm the soldier, dad. You taught me to kill, and now I'm going to. I'm going to kill you. Eventually.

"See, I had to put up with a lot from you over the years. All the training, the hunting, the _looks._ I saw the way you looked at me, even before that shtriga tried to kill Sammy. I'm not as dumb as you think I am, dad, and I saw it. You looked at him with love and affection. You looked at me with something like disgust. I used to wonder why, and then I figured it out.

"I remind you of mom, don't I?" It smiled, ruffling John's hair, "but you know what, dad? I'm more like you than her. She didn't have this evil within her waiting to break free."

Realization dawned in the older hunter's eyes. "You're-"

"The bad part of your sweet oldest boy, yeah. The good part's on his way, and, let's face it, when it comes to me, there never was an ugly. So sit back, relax, and enjoy this rant, because it's been a long time coming.

"I do everything you tell me to, I never question your orders, and you overlook me. You prefer Sammy, don't you dad, and you don't try to hide it. I tried to be perfect for you, and you know what it got me? Absolutely nothing. You left. Just _poof_. One day I wake up, and you're gone.

"When you came back, I tried to be perfect again, but I was mad. I was _pissed off_. And it was all your fault. So I took a page from Sammy's book and decided to rebel a bit, see if I could get your attention, and you yelled at me for it.

"Now, here's the kicker, dad. You get your ass possessed, try to kill me, and then ignore the fact that I'm dying in the backseat of the car. But, you know, I can forgive you for that. You had more important things on your mind. Like how special Sammy is, right? Boy, he sure is better than me, huh?"

"You don't mean that," John sighed, "any of it. It's not you, Dean. This isn't your fault."

"But everything else is. As least, that seems to be your philosophy when it comes to just about everything. If Sammy fell down and skinned his knee when he was just learning how to walk it was my fault. If he went out on a date and stayed past curfew, I was to blame. He suddenly develops psychic powers and it's all my fault. I should have _told you_ that he was seeing crap that hasn't even happened yet, right?"

"You misunderstood that. I didn't mean it like that-"

"No, dad," Dean said, kneeling back down in front of the chair and locking eyes with the older man again, "you meant it just like that. I believe your exact words were, 'if something like this happens to your brother, you call me.' Ignoring the fact that I can never get a hold of you, do you really expect me to go behind my brother's back like that? I mean, I will _now_, but back then? Ooh, if Sammy'd found out I'd done something like that, he would have left. Just like you."

John hung his head. "We'll fix this, Dean, we will."

"I don't think so," the younger man said, grabbing his knife off the bed, "see, you won't be talking much longer. Any last words?"

The older hunter swallowed hard as the knife was pressed to his throat. He looked into the cold hazel eyes that had locked with his own and shuddered. Had his son always felt like this? Like he was second best? Was this twisted imitation telling the truth, or just lying through his teeth?

"I," John began, hoping that the three simple words that he had hardly spoken to his oldest boy since the fire that had taken his dreams away could stop the dark storm that raged behind those haunted eyes. He never got the chance to find out.

The door of the motel room burst open, revealing two silhouettes that both men recognized instantly.

"You," Dean hissed, standing up slowly and turning to face the door, "I was wondering when you'd come to join the party." He smirked.

"Looks like we're just in time," another voice said, exactly like the first that had spoken. John's eyes widened as his eldest son stepped into the room, wearing blood-smeared jeans and a crimson shirt that had once been white. His right hand had been crudely bandaged.

"Dean?" he asked as the newcomer crossed the room to stand between John and his captor. Sam walked around behind him to loosen the knots that held him in place.

"Don't worry, dad," the man said, smiling sweetly, "we're gonna get you out of here."

"Where's the fun in that?" his captor asked, dropping the knife back on to the bed and shrugging, his black-clad shoulders rising and falling quickly.

"Sam," John whispered urgently, watching the two Deans stare each other down, "what's going on here?"

"Later, dad," Sam hissed back, "it's not safe here for either of us."

The man in black smirked. "You can't run forever, you know that, right? And there's no way a wimp like you can protect them, so just give up. Let me kill them, and I swear, I'll leave you alone. Oh, wait, that's right. You don't like being alone, do you Dean? That's too bad." He took a step forward, grabbing for the knife as he did, but his better half was faster and got to it first.

"No way," he said, "I'm not going to let you hurt my family."

The twisted version of the hunter rolled his eyes and took another step forward. "What are you gonna do? You can't hurt me without hurting yourself."

"And I can't hurt myself without hurting you," the good one nodded, smiling and placing the glinting knife blade up to his wrist. The other man stepped back, holding his hands up in front of his chest.

"All right, man, I'll leave them be. For now, at least, just don't do something we'll both regret later. Although," the evil smirk returned, "you could do it and they wouldn't even shed a tear. You realize that, right? If you slit our wrists, they wouldn't give a damn? They'd just leave, wouldn't even bother to bury us. Shame, too. We always wanted a nice funeral."

"Sam, get dad out of here. I'll make sure this thing doesn't follow us."

"This _thing_?" the man asked, feigning shock, "how could you, Dean? I'm just as much a part of this family as you. But, I guess that makes me something like chopped liver in these folks' eyes, huh?"

"You shut up."

The ropes that had been holding John fell loose, and the man stood up, looking at the scene. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought that the two men blocking the door were twins.

Sam grabbed his father's wrist and pulled him past the two halves of his brother. They had gotten to the door when John suddenly stopped, pulled free of his youngest son's grasp, and reached into his jacket. He pulled out a gun, which he brought down over the closest man's head.

Sam watched as his brother fell, both hitting the dirty floor at the same time. "Go," he yelled at his father, a little angry at the man for the uncalled for attack, "now. Get in the Impala. I'll grab Dean."

His father ran into the parking lot, yelling something that sounded like 'keys' as he went. Sam nodded, and reached into the pocket of the evil man's black jacket to find the Impala's keys. He stepped over the fallen villain and grabbed his brother, picking him up (Dean was lighter than he'd imagined) and carrying him to the car.

Sammy slid in behind the wheel and adjusted the seat, glancing carefully at his father, who was sitting beside him. Dean had been laid in the backseat, and was starting to regain consciousness.

"You mind explaining this now?" John asked urgently as the car pulled from the parking lot of the small motel.

"Can it wait until Dean wakes up?"

"No, it can't. Sam, this is important, all right. I need to know what's going on with you two. Or is it _three_?"

Sam was about to reply, but stopped when he heard a soft moan from the backseat. "Hey," he said softly, glancing up into the rearview, "you all right."

"Headache," Dean replied groggily, "hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch out for semis." Dean grinned, then passed out again. Sam and John looked at each other for a moment before getting the joke. They smiled, albeit slightly, in the waning light of the setting sun.


	8. Chapter 8

All right. Time for more from the Winchesters. Let's jsut see how Johnny takes this little split...

* * *

The man in the bloodstained clothes began to stir, turning over in the bed and moaning softly as his father and brother watched him. Slowly, his hazel eyes opened and he rubbed his head, feeling the large bump that had formed. He looked around at the motel room, at his family, and smiled.

"Hey," he muttered, sitting up and closing his eyes as the room began to spin, "you hit me kind of hard."

John just glanced at Dean before turning to Sam. "Now will you explain this to me?"

Reluctantly, Sammy nodded. "About a month ago," he began, sitting down at the foot of his brother's bed, "Dean and I tried to stop a crazy man from blowing up a hospital ion Onyx, Montana, and-"

"The same Onyx where seven blonde women were killed around that time?"

"Yeah, that Onyx, and we-"

"You found the thing that killed them and got rid of it, right?"

"Actually," Dean said, grinning sheepishly as he joined his brother at the foot of the bed, "I was the thing that killed them. It was the other me."

John closed his eyes and sighed, taking a seat on the room's other bed. "I got ahead of myself there, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, "kind of. See, when the room exploded, Dean pushed me out into the hallway. The man that blew up the room, a guy with multiple personality disorder, was killed in the blast. I guess some of his energy got transferred to Dean in the explosion and split him in two."

"Two different personalities?"

"Good and evil," Dean nodded, "_really _evil. He killed those women, attacked and kidnapped me and Sam, and would have killed him if his plan hadn't worked."

"I'm going to ignore the fact that you just told me that you tried to kill your brother," John mumbled, refusing to look at his oldest son, "and ask what the plan was."

"We blew up another room," Sam answered, "when both of him were inside fighting. It got him back together, though now we know it wasn't good enough. There've been two different personalities living in his head for the past month, I guess, and that's why he split again when he blew up the tank in the warehouse the other day."

John nodded, beginning to get the gist of what his sons were telling him, but still having trouble believing it. "So, this two different personality thing, can you explain it to me?"

Dean shrugged. "Both halves of me are made up of different parts of my normal personality, I think. The other me's the one that likes to kill, likes to torture. I can't even think of doing something like that unless I absolutely have to."

"He's the protective one," Sam explained, pointing to the man beside him, "a little more emotional, too. He won't let anything happen to us."

Sighing, John stood up. "So," he mumbled, running his rough hands through his graying hair, "what you're telling me is that the man that tied me up could have killed me, and will probably kill anyway, and the guy sitting on the bed won't kill because he's too good?"

"I could," Dean began, noting the quick flicker of disappointment in his father's eyes, "I remember how. It's just that murder, taking someone's life, it seems wrong now. It's never been an issue before, but-"

"He'll kill if he has to," Sam said, coming to his brother's rescue, "if worse comes to worse."

"And if one of them gets hurt?" John asked.

"Both of us feel it," Dean nodded, "that's why I passed out and it's why my hand's bleeding now."

The oldest hunter nodded, rubbing his face distractedly. "We need to find a way to put you back right," he said, glancing at the door, "I need some time to think. I'll just be outside." He grabbed his jacket from the bed it had been lying on and walked toward the door.

"Dad," Dean began softly. His father turned. "I'm sorry. For what that guy did to you back there. What he said, it was way off-line. I don't feel like that, and I never have. And I would never try to hurt Sam."

John glanced at the floor. "That's not true, son. That thing's a part of you, and it tried to kill us both. Obviously, you have some unresolved issues with your brother and I. It said Sam had died in the explosion in the warehouse. I assume you set of that explosion."

"When I was one person, yeah. Something just told me to. It killed the werewolf, and I got Sam out before anything happened-"

"That was pretty stupid, Dean," John said, his voice low, "something I would expect you to do only as a last-ditch effort. Never draw attention to yourself or the site, son, I've told you that a thousand times. You put your brother's life in danger."

"I'm sorry, sir," Dean muttered, looking down at the floor, "I didn't think-"

"You hardly ever do, Dean," John sighed, shaking his head. He turned back to the door and walked out of the room.

Sam looked at his brother, who hadn't taken his eyes from the floor. "I didn't mean to put you in danger," he whispered, "I'm sorry."

"I'm fine," Sammy said, watching the older man closely. He was convinced his brother was crying and trying hard to hide it, "really. I'm gonna go talk to dad, OK. Why don't you lay back down and get some sleep. I have a feeling we've got a long hunt ahead of us."

Dean nodded slowly, swiping a hand quickly over his eyes as his brother left the room. Sam turned in the doorway in time to watch his brother really break down.

John Winchester stood with his back to the motel, watching the sun set as a nasty storm rolled in. He heard footsteps crunching in the gravel behind him, but didn't bother to turn around. He knew who it was.

"Please tell me this is a joke," he said, never tearing his eyes from the horizon.

"See for yourself," Sam offered, stepping aside so that his father could see clearly into the room through the window.

Slowly, John turned, looking in through the window to see his oldest son, his perfect soldier, wiping his eyes as tears fell freely onto his tattered, bloodstained jeans. "That's not my son," the hunter mumbled, "it can't be."

"So, you'd rather sit across from the psychopathic murderer at Thanksgiving?" Sam asked.

"No. It's not Dean, neither of them are. I know my son."

"Maybe not as well as you think. Look at him, dad. It's Dean. I've spent more time with him than you have in the past couple of years, and I know him pretty well. I've hardly ever seen him like this. He doesn't show emotion like other people, but it's there. It seeps through sometimes, not often, mind you, but enough.

"And the other him? That's the guy we get to see most often. He's the one that pulls the trigger, he's the one that sleeps with every pretty girl he sees, he's the one you trained."

"Your brother isn't weak like that, Sammy, he doesn't cry."

"Showing emotion isn't a sign of weakness, dad. It's a sign of humanity. To be honest with you, it's actually kind of nice to see him let it out every now and then. If he didn't, I suppose he'd just keep it bottled up all the time, and that's not healthy."

John just shook his head. "That's not the man I raised, Sam. I taught him to be strong, and resourceful, and fearless. This isn't Dean."

Sam stared at the older man, his eyes hardening in the light of the setting sun. "It's Dean. And you probably shouldn't let him hear you talking like that. It'll mess him up bad."

"Mess him worse, you mean," John stated flatly, "it's already bad. He can't do his job anymore, Sammy, he can't kill. He can't protect you if anything happens to me. He's useless like this."

Before he realized what was happening, John found himself pinned up against the wall, staring into his youngest son's green eyes. "What did you call him?" Sam asked, breathing hard through clenched teeth as his eyes narrowed.

"He's useless now, Sam. Your brother can't possibly be any help to us when he's like this. You know that."

"No, dad," Sam growled, "he's not useless. He'll kill. He'll kill if we ask him to. If you _tell_ him to. That's just the way Dean is. I think it's high time you learn that." The young hunter let his father go and stalked back into the room, leaving the door open a crack.

John sighed, running a hand over his face, and looked into the room. Sam went to sit beside his brother, who was still situated at the foot of the bed. He wrapped an arm around his older brother and pulled him close. Their father barely stifled as gasp as he watched the oldest man return the hug.

"He hates me," he heard Dean mutter, "he's always hated me. The shtriga thing just gave him an excuse to openly hate me."

"It's all right," Sam replied, "he'll come around. Sooner or later, he'll come around."

John closed the door, turning back to the darkness of early night, and fought back his own tears.


	9. Chapter 9

Heehee... my plan to get people to hate John as much as I do is working! Yay!

* * *

"You're sure you don't want to come with us?" Sam asked as he checked his wallet to se how much money he had left. His father just nodded.

"I've got some work to do." Of course, by 'work,' John meant 'research.'

Sammy sighed, glancing out the window at his brother, who was waiting behind the wheel of the car and occasionally looking back over his shoulder into the room to make sure his brother was really coming along. "Want us to bring you anything back?"

"A burger would be nice," John replied, flipping open the laptop and pulling his journal close, "extra pickles."

"All right. We shouldn't be gone too long." The younger hunter left the room, slipping the key into his pocket, and crossed the parking lot to the Impala. He slid into the passenger seat and smiled at his brother, who smiled back.

"So," Dean began, putting the car into gear and pulling out of the spot, "where's this diner you saw?"

"About a mile out of town. There's a big sign out front that says 'diner.'"

"Really? Never would have guess. Thanks for that. Dad doesn't want to come?"

Sam shook his head. "Said he had work to do."

"He's lying," Dean replied, "he doesn't want to come because of me."

"That's not true. He just wants to find a way to fix this. He wants to make you whole again without any of those unforeseen side effects we got last time. He wants us to pick him up a burger, too. Remember that, because I'll probably forget."

"Believe what you want to," the older man muttered sadly, "but it's me. I'm useless to him now."

Sam looked at his brother, shocked. "What gave you that idea?"

"I overheard you guys last night. Motel walls are paper-thin. It's all right, though. I always knew he liked you better. I guess you could say I'm used to it. Really, it's all right." he smiled weakly as the small diner came into view.

John sighed, staring blankly at the computer screen, his eyes unfocused. If he acknowledged it the problem would be made real, so he would try to push it from his mind, try to distance himself from it. It wasn't his son, it couldn't be. Dean was invincible. Nothing bad could happen to him, because he wasn't human. He was something more. He wasn't a murderer, and he certainly wasn't the fragile thing John had met the night before. No, he was somewhere else, whole and laughing his head off at his father's stupidity. Sammy was probably in on it, too.

As much as he wanted to believe that, though, he couldn't. Because Dean _was_ a murderer, and Dean _was_ fragile. There was a reason for that, the hunter knew, someone to blame. He just didn't want to point the finger. He didn't have to anymore. His son had done that for him.

So he stared at the screen and thought about his life. He thought about his son's life, about all of the years locked up in motel rooms, about the endless training, about the hunts. He thought about his own lack of confidence in the boy after one mistake, about his own unwillingness to accept the fact that, as he had grown up, Dean had slowly redeemed himself for that long-ago mistake.

He thought about the relationship his sons now shared. How the demon had shaken it after a year of rebuilding. How the simple words it had spoken had damaged Dean far worse than anything else in his life. He thought about this split had opened up a way for his boys to finally communicate, and how, without his usual barrier of wit and sarcasm, Dean was just like everyone else, his defenses weakened. He would talk about things now, say what needed to be said.

They would communicate better as long as his oldest son was two people. They would get along better, maybe even learn a few things. That was what John feared most, because Dean wasn't like other people. He was damaged. There were things hidden away in his mind that could make a grown man shudder, and that was why he kept them hidden. There were feelings of inadequacy that should never be expressed, fears that should never be conquered, and thoughts so disturbing that to put them into words would bring shock to anyone's system.

Good and evil, his son had his secrets. _Big_ secrets. Murder, sex, lies. Loneliness, abandonment, grief. John just hoped he could find a way to fix it before anything really bad happened. Hopefully, with a little luck and a lot of digging, he would find a way to get his proper son back without any painful memories. One body with one mind. That was the goal.

Tearing himself from his stupor, John pulled the computer close and began to read, checking his journal when he needed to, but finding nothing truly useful.

Up and down, up and down, the quarter traveled up and down. Sam was getting sick of it. He watched it fly up, twisting in the air, before traveling back to his brother's hand. Up it went again, then back down. If the food didn't get there soon, if Dean didn't need both of his hands to eat, Sam would grab that quarter and shove it up his big brother's ass.

"You all right?" Dean asked, still flipping the coin. He wasn't sure he liked the way his brother was staring at him, like he had something twisted planned.

"What?" Sam asked.

"You're staring at me. It's unnerving."

"Maybe I'd stop staring at you if you'd stop flipping that damn coin."

Dean grinned. "Make me."

"What?"

"You heard me," the older man said, though the confidence had drained from his voice, which shook a bit, "make me. Just don't use your hands."

Sam leaned forward across the table, his eyes following the coin again. "You're kidding, right?"

"Just try it."

"Fine," Sam sighed, sitting back in the booth and looking around the near-empty diner. He focused on the coin, trying to block everything else from his mind. If he could stop it midair, or make if fly across the room, or maybe even beam his brother in the head with it… really, anything would work as long as it stopped.

He closed his eyes, only thinking about the coin, only trying to make it stop. He concentrated on it, keeping his mind clear. He only saw the coin, 25 cents hovering in midair. His eyes snapped open.

Dean just stared at him, still flipping the coin, smiling slightly.

"It won't work," Sam said, shaking his head, "I can't turn it on and off. I know we've had this discussion."

"You moved that knife in Onyx," Dean pointed out, "right after you threw the maniac across the room."

"But I didn't mean to do any of that. The guy ticked me off, and I'm not even sure what happened with the knife."

"What happened when you moved the cabinet in Max's house in Michigan?" The quarter continued to move, up and down, up and down. Very annoying.

"I don't know, man. I saw you die. I told you, it just came out like a punch."

"So, you weren't _trying_ to move it when it slid away?"

Sam shook his head. "No, I wasn't."

"Or the knife, or the other me?"

"No and no. What's that got to do with anything, though?"

Dean grinned. "Look up, Sam." The younger man followed his brother's gaze. The quarter sat in midair, completely still, hovering about a foot above the table. As his eyes found it, the coin dropped, clattering back onto the table and spinning a bit before falling silent.

"How?"

"Looks to me like you need a distraction," Dean said, picking up the quarter and inspecting it, "be it grief, anger, or just s friendly conversation, you can't do this unless you're thinking about something else."

"So it just happens when I need it to but don't want it to?"

His brother shrugged. "Maybe. Want to try again?"

Sam shook his head. "Maybe later. I've, uh, gotta go." he caught the look on his brother's face and sighed as he slid out of the booth. "Bathroom, man. Relax."

"Get back soon," Dean muttered as the waitress approached with their food.

Sammy nodded and headed toward the back of the restaurant, where the restrooms were located. He pulled open the door and glanced back at his brother, who was staring at him intently, before stepping inside.

He locked the door and turned to the mirror. Sighing, Sam ran some cold water into the sink and splashed his face with it. His brother was finally willing to help him understand the strangeness that was Sam Winchester, and it was a welcome change to his usual don't-ask-don't-tell policy.

Grabbing for the paper towels that hung beside the sink, Sam looked up into the mirror and found a very familiar someone standing behind him. He chuckled. "Dean, I told you I'd be back. You need to trust me."

"Oh, I did trust you, Sammy," the man in the black t-shirt sneered, "and it's gotten me into a lot of trouble."

The younger hunter whirled around in time to see the handle of the knife that the evil man loved so much sailing toward his head. He felt an explosion of pain, and then darkness.


	10. Chapter 10

All right. It's time to once again check up on our boys and see how they're doing. Chances are, they're about to get into even more trouble. Thanks for all the reviews!

* * *

Dean checked his watch. It had been almost twenty minutes. He had finished off his own burger and fries, and now just sat staring at the door his brother had disappeared behind. He was starting to get worried.

Slowly, he slid out of the booth and walked up to the door. He knocked lightly, calling out his brother's name. No reply. Fear and panic began bubbling up within him, and he tried the door. Locked.

Looking around, Dean reached into his pocket. Since the incident at the Bender residence he'd decided to start carrying paper clips, and they had come in handy a few times. He hoped now was one of those times.

He slipped the clip into the lock and jiggled it around until he heard the familiar click. He pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside. No sign of his brother, and the single small window in the room was broken. Clearly, Sam had abandoned him.

Dean turned to the mirror and gasped. A few small dots of red marred the reflective surface. He looked closer and found that it wasn't paint, but blood, and it was still fresh.

Pushing back his panic and fear, the hunter went to the broken window and looked out. There were fresh tracks in the mud.

He ran from the small bathroom, grabbing the Styrofoam container with his father's lunch off the table and throwing down a wad of bills he had to assume was enough to pay for the meals. Dean hurried around to the back of the building and stopped by the window, looking at the ground.

One set of tracks led toward the building, and one led away. Near those tracks were two long marks in the mud, like something or someone had been pulled through the muck.

Taking a deep breath, Dean stood in the tracks that led toward the building. They matched his own exactly. He had kidnapped his brother.

He'd had worse headaches, of that he was sure, but it was the cause of the headache that _really _hurt him. Slowly, Sam opened his eyes and looked around the room. He was in a basement, a nicely furnished one, and was sitting on the carpeted floor with his wrist and ankles bound together with thick rope. He wasn't alone.

"Where are we?" Sam asked the petite woman that was tied up in a chair by one of the walls.

"My basement," she said, smiling weakly, "well, actually, it belonged to my husband and I. He's dead now. He answered the door and saw that man standing there with a toolbox in his hands. He said he was with the gas company and that there may have been a leak. Mark let him in, and the man… the man shot him."

Sammy sighed, laying his head back against the couch he'd been propped up against. "And he tied you up down here?"

"Not right away. He killed my daughter first. She was three. He, um, suffocated her while she was taking a nap. That was late yesterday evening."

"I'm so sorry." He looked at her. She was pretty, blonde, and seemed to be taking the sudden death of everyone she loved extremely well.

"What's your story?" she asked quietly, "why are you here? What happened?"

"We've kind of got a history. He doesn't like me much, and he ambushed me in a bathroom. But we can make it out of here. I've gotten away from him before."

"He'll kill us," the woman remarked sadly, "he told me so. He said he'd rape me, then kill me. It's OK, though. I suppose that when he's done, I'll be with my family again. I'm Marcy."

"Sam."

"It's nice to meet you," Marcy smiled, "even under the conditions."

Footsteps echoed overhead and a door slammed. Feet padded down the carpeted stairs and their captor appeared, smirking, knife in hand.

"Now where have I seen this before?" Sam asked sarcastically as the evil man approached.

"Sammy," Dean scolded, "this is completely different. I left one of them alive this time. Thought you should see the kill." He walked slowly over the Marcy, who recoiled. "Shhh. It'll all be over soon, babe."

"I thought you said," she gasped as the knife drew near her throat, "that you wanted to have some fun with me first."

"This _is_ fun," he smiled, "for me." The blade of the knife glinted in the weak light that filtered into the room through a single window. "Hold still." He slashed out at her, the blade whistling through the air and cutting effortlessly through her neck. Blood bubbled from the deep cut.

Dean turned, wiping the blade of his weapon across his dark shirt, and approached his brother. "It's gonna be a slow, painful death for her, Sammy. Like it was a slow, painful life for me. But, I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I'm free now. All that crap you and dad gave me is far behind now."

"You killed the whole family?"

"What was I supposed to do, ask for free room and board?"

Sam sighed, glancing over at Marcy, who was gasping for breath. She made a series of gurgling noises as she died, her brown eyes pleading for him to make it stop.

"Ok," Sam muttered, "you got my attention. What do you want."

"I want to gloat," Dean smirked, "I want to prove once and for all that I'm smarter than College Boy. Of course, I'd like for daddy dearest to be here, but that wasn't possible. I'll just tell you instead."

"Tell me what?"

"I know something you don't. I hate to break it to ya, Sammy, but even when you and dad put your heads together, I'm smarter. I know, it's a shock. See, I did my own research after you guys abandoned me again, and found out something very interesting about my current condition.

"Apparently, there's a reason that both of me get hurt at the same time. Mentally, we're split, but psychically, we're still one person. The only way around that is to make me 'whole' again."

Sam smiled. "You _can't_ stay like this, then. You have to get back together."

"Not exactly, Sammy. The definition of 'whole' is very loose when it comes to this sort of thing. 'Whole' just means that I have to have part of the other me in me. Confused?"

"It doesn't make any sense."

"That's what I thought at first," Dean said, kneeling on the floor so that he could meet his brother's eyes, "but then I thought about it. All it takes is a little bit of the goody-goody. Just a drop of blood shed into one of my own wounds. Then, I can finally be rid of my better half without any adverse affects.

"Unfortunately, the same is true for him. One drop of _my _blood and he'll be whole again. That's why I have to kill you now."

Sam glanced at Marcy, who had finally fallen still and silent in the basement. "You're going to slit my throat?"

Dean shook his head. "No fun in that. It's kind of getting old. I stole the car back. Gotta love that trunk. I'll find something more fitting, maybe some way to torture you. I'm thinking I'll shoot you in the leg, cover the wound with salt, then douse you in gasoline, and light you on fire. I'll do that a couple of times before grabbing a machete and chopping you up slowly, bit by agonizing bit. I think I'll start with your ears, then feet and hands, maybe take off your nose, too. Eventually, you'll die."

"Or pass out."

Dean smirked, standing up and looking down at his little brother with raw hatred burning in his hazel eyes. "Now where's the fun in that? I intend to keep you conscious the whole time, little brother, no matter what."

"You're not my brother," Sam muttered, struggling against his restraints as the older man sauntered toward the stairs.

Dean turned, his eyes flashing angrily in the dimly lit room. "Never say that," he growled, "I'm Dean Winchester, whether you and daddy like it or not. Pretty soon, I'll be the _only_ Dean Winchester, so get used to the idea of having me around."

"Even if you _can_ kill me, they won't let you get away with it. They won't let you win."

Dean stopped by the foot of the staircase and turned to face his little brother. He smirked. "Whatever, man. Listen, it might be a while before I get back and I don't want you to get bored. So, uh, here," he dropped his weapon on the floor and looked back up at Sam, "you wanna get away and warn them, be my guest. Make the knife float to you, there, Psychic Boy." Laughing, he turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Sighing heavily, Sam looked at the knife. Just a month earlier, he'd made a similar knife skitter across the floor to him, but without his brother there to cheer him on he doubted he could do it again. _Just need a distraction,_ he thought, _at least, that's what Dean thinks. I hope he's right._

Desperate to take his mind from the knife lying across from him on the floor, Sam turned his eyes to Marcy's blood-drenched body and shuddered. Maybe not the best choice.

"How about this," he muttered to himself, "Dean's probably back at the motel room with dad, who, I'm sure, is ripping him a new one. He can't be taking it that well." He shook his head, glancing back at the knife. It hadn't moved.

Sam searched the room, hoping to find something to take his mind off of his current problem. His head began to throb dully as he looked around. He was sure a lump was forming there, if one hadn't already. The dull pain got worse, searing through his skull.

"Not now," he mumbled, hanging his head and trying to will the coming vision away, "anytime but now."

Dean stood with his back to them. His white shirt was again covered in blood, but not as badly as it had been the first day of the split. He was talking to someone Sam couldn't see.

"We'll see about that," Dean remarked, getting up in the other guy's face. Sammy could hear the defiance in his brother's voice. Something big was happening, he just wasn't sure what. Suddenly, a gunshot rang out through the dark room.

Dean's head turned back as the blood began to seep through his shirt, staining it crimson. He looked at Sam, no, _beside_ him. Sam turned, too, to see his father holding a smoking gun.

He looked back to his brother, panic beginning to worm its way into his chest. Dean was bleeding a lot, more than he should have been, and, as the older man fell, Sammy realized that the bullet had probably pierced his heart. The look of hurt in his eyes gave it away, all of the pain he'd ever endured, and his life had come to this. His father had shot him.


	11. Chapter 11

Well, here's Chapter 11. Thanks again for all the reviews!

* * *

His head still pounding, Sam laid his head gingerly against his shoulder. He blinked twice, willing the unwanted pain of the vision away, and then smiled. The knife lay glinting on the carpet beside him. Slowly, he scooted toward it until it was within reach.

Even though his head still ached and the pain was beginning to spread down into his neck and shoulders, Sam was able to get the weapon into his hands and carve away at the ropes. His wrists fell free and he started on his ankles, having no idea how long he'd been trapped in the basement, where Marcy's house was in the town, or if his captor had stolen the car.

With his ankles free, Sam stood up and walked to the window, fighting a wave of nausea that threatened to hinder his escape. The only window in the room was small and set high up in the wall, but the glass was thin and he broke it easily with the handle of the knife. He began to clamber out as footsteps again echoed overhead.

Grunting, the hunter rolled onto the grass of the house's front lawn. He crawled on his belly across the yard and found his brother's car parked faithfully in the driveway. From the interior of the house, he heard an aggravated scream. Still clutching the knife, Sammy ran for the car.

It wasn't hard to get the car started, and Sam smiled as he pulled out of the driveway. The old car sure was getting around a lot that week. In fact, it had been stolen by the same person three times. He checked the rearview in time to see a man dressed all in black running down the street after him, waving a shotgun over his head. Of course, it _was_ Dean, and he would never shoot the Impala.

John's eyes narrowed as the tentative knock came again. Sammy had a key, so it couldn't have been him. The hunter peeked out the window, his eyes narrowing even more. It was Dean.

"Where's your brother?" he called out, slipping a hand into the pocket of his coat and pulling out the small gun he always kept there. He put the other hand lightly on the doorknob.

"I took him," Dean replied shakily, "and stole the car. I don't know where they went."

"How don't you know? You just said you took him."

"The other me. The bad one. Dad, let me in, I need your help."

Slowly, John unlocked the door and turned the knob. It creaked slowly open and Dean came running in, immediately wishing he hadn't.

"Dad," he muttered, staring straight into the barrel of the gun, "put the gun down, please."

"Not until I'm sure it's you. The you that Sam took to the diner, not the you that tried to kill me."

Dean's eyes widened. "That reminds me," he gasped, and ran out of the room. He returned a minute later holding a Styrofoam box in his hands. "Sorry if it's cold, but I had to walk. Like I said, I took the car."

John sighed, lowering his gun, but not putting it back in his pocket. "What happened?"

The younger man shrugged, setting the box down on the dresser before sitting on the edge of the bed and running a hand distractedly through his short hair. "I thought I'd made him mad. He went into the bathroom before the food got there, and he didn't come out for twenty minutes. I picked the lock and went in, but he wasn't there. I looked out the window, and saw the tracks. One set of footprints, and a pair of lines, like someone had been drug out."

"And you're sure it was the other you?"

Dean nodded sadly. "I stood in the footprints, dad, and they matched mine exactly. The car was gone, too. Who else could it be?"

"Do you know where it took him?"

"No," he said, turning the wince that came from his father calling any part of him 'it' into a small shrug, "no tire tracks, and I got there too late to see where the car was going. I asked around, but nobody saw anything. I'm sorry."

John sighed, noticing the watery look of his eldest son's eyes, and set the gun on the dresser beside the Styrofoam container that held his lunch. "Think," he said, sitting down on the room's other bed, "is there any place in town that it might have taken Sam?"

The wince-turned-shrug again. "I've never been here before, sir. I only know where the motel and diner are, and even then, I got kind of lost trying to make it back here."

"Then concentrate," John suggested, "close your eyes and clear your mind. That thing's part of you, so maybe there's a psychic connection."

"Like with twins?"

"Just do it," John snapped coldly, staring at the floor to avoid the hurt look in his son's usually-strong eyes.

Dean nodded slowly and closed his eyes, putting his hands up to his head. He saw only darkness, heard his father's footsteps as the older man paced the room. He concentrated on clearing his mind, on trying to find his brother. Still, he only saw the insides of his eyelids.

"I'm sorry, sir," he muttered, shaking his head, "nothing. It's just dark."

"Try harder," John hissed, still pacing, "there's got to be something. Some kind of mental link to match the physical one."

"I don't think there is. That's why I've been hearing voices for the past month. We're separate minds."

"Just try again. Concentrate. We need to find him."

The younger man nodded again, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. The truth was, he was scared to try and get inside the evil man's mind. He had a feeling that he wouldn't like what he would find. Apparently, though, it wasn't a problem. Dean still only found darkness and the sound of his father's feet on the floor when he closed his eyes.

He closed his eyes tighter, fighting off the tears that his father's constant disappointment threatened to bring, knowing that if he cried he'd be seen as a weakling. He shoved the heels of his hands into his temples in a desperate attempt to block out the shuffling noises coming from the room. Darkness, still, complete, empty, lonely darkness.

"I can't do it," Dean moaned, "it's just not there. I'm sure he'll be all right, though. Sam can take care of himself."

"No, Dean," John replied, his voice low, "no, he can't. Do you know why?"

Dean shook his head as his father walked back to the bed, his eyes sharp with the disappointment and subtle hate he'd always harbored toward his eldest boy.

"It's because he's always had you," the older hunter muttered softly, "you were always there protecting him, Dean. It was your job." Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed the younger man's shoulders and slammed him against the wall. "You failed, son," he barked, "you let him out of your sight and now he's gone. You know what that maniac's going to do to him? He's going to kill him. Your brother is going to _die _because of _you_ and at _your hands!_ Is that something you can live with?"

John released the death-grip he'd had on his son's shoulders and slowly backed away. He'd always had a quick temper, had had a number of problems keeping it in check, especially when Dean was involved, but what he saw in his son's eyes as he backed away was enough to bring him out of his rage. The man's eyes were blank. The lights were on, but no one was home. And it was his fault.

Dean slid down to the floor, pulling his knees into his chest as he did so. John kept backing away, staring at the emptiness he'd put in his boy's eyes, at the fear written all over the younger man's face, at the way his whole body shook with silent sobs, the way it had before the fire, before he'd been turned into the perfect soldier. Before the evil inside of him, and evil that was now free, had been bred.

As he watched the man cry, John had to put out a hand to steady himself. He grabbed the dresser and stood, watching his son quiver as the light returned to his eyes. Those eyes, the ones that had once been so full of life and happiness, darted insecurely around the room as his breath hitched in his throat.

_I did it_, the older hunter thought, shaking his head but finding himself unable to tear his eyes from the broken man that sat hunkered in the corner, _I made him what he is. Everything. Good and bad, he's my son. I did this._


	12. Chapter 12

Well, Thanks again for all the reviews!

* * *

Sam was glad he'd been the one with the key. He had a sneaking suspicion that his brother's evil half was looking for him, and would probably find him eventually. He need quick access to the room. He shoved the key into the slot and opened the door.

He took a step into the room and stopped dead. His father was standing by the dresser with a look of sick shock on his face. A Styrofoam container sat next to his hand, indicating that Dean had made it back to the room. A gun was lying on the dresser beside the take-out.

"Dad," Sam began, taking a step forward and letting the door swing shut behind him, "what happened?" The look on his father's face, coupled with the location of the weapon, worried him. He had a right to be worried, though, considering the disturbing vision he'd had back at Marcy's house. "Where's Dean?"

Although the older man's expression didn't change, there was a sadness in his voice that Sam couldn't remember ever hearing before. It scared him. "Behind you, Sammy, he's behind you."

Sam whirled around, staring at the wall for signs of blood. When he didn't see any, he lowered his gaze. What he saw simultaneously tugged at his heartstrings and made him want to run to the bathroom and vomit.

Dean sat crumpled on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest and crying silently. There was a blank look in his eyes, which searched the room desperately before finally locking on Sam. The hazy quality faded, revealing the haunted hazels Sam had become accustomed to.

"Sam?" the older man asked, shaking his head slightly, "he said you were dead. He told me I killed you."

Sammy turned to glare at his father. "He _did_, huh? Well, I'm fine. I got away. Before I left, though, he told me something. I guess he thought I wouldn't be able to escape."

"He told you how to get them back together?" John asked, keeping his eyes trained on his youngest son as Dean slowly stood up.

"No," Sam shook his head, "but he found out how to make himself 'whole.'"

"Wouldn't that be putting them back together?"

"Not the way he described it," Sam explained, "he found out why both of them get hurt at the same time. They're still physically connected."

"But not mentally?" Dean asked quietly, taking a step toward his brother, "we're not mentally connected?"

"I don't think so. Why, you want to try and telepathically communicate with him or something?" When no one answered, Sam went on. "The guy's done his homework. He said a drop of Dean's blood spilled into one of his own wounds would make him whole again." He turned to his brother. "He could kill you without killing himself."

"Then he'd be left to do whatever he wanted. We can't let him do that," John said, "there's got to be a way to stop him."

"There is," Dean reasoned, "kill him. Kill him before he can kill me. That's the only way, unless you know how to put me back together."

"You'll die, too," Sam pointed out.

"Not if I make myself 'whole' again."

"Turn his own plan against him."

Dean nodded. "Any ideas on how to do that?"

"No!" John roared as the door to the room closed, "I won't allow it."

"Keep it down," Sammy cautioned, "he'll hear you." He'd sent Dean outside to raid the trunk in the hopes that he could find out exactly what had happened while he'd been gone. Unfortunately, the conversation had been sidetracked.

"He can't do it, Sam. Tell him he can't do it."

"Why don't you tell him yourself?"

"I have my reasons," John muttered, glancing out the window at the car, "just tell him no. He can't stay like this."

"Why not?" Sam asked, "he seems fine to me. He's sleeping better, he's being honest with me and himself for once in his life, and that guilty conscience of his is pretty much gone. He deserves to be happy, dad."

John sighed. "I told you already, Sammy, he won't be happy. He can't be. He's useless to us as a hunter now."

"But not as _family_, dad. Not as a person. He's still Dean."

"Face it, son. His usefulness has ended."

_"I had to cut her loose," Dean's evil half had said after his seventh kill in Onyx, "her usefulness had ended." _Was that what his father was planning for Dean? A literal blow to the heart?

"He's my brother," Sam growled, "and your son. Show a little compassion for once in your life."

The door opened and Dean walked in with the green duffel bag slung over his shoulder. "There's still some stuff in the trunk," he mumbled, throwing the bag on a bed, "I wasn't sure we'd need it."

"I'll grab it," John said gruffly, pushing past his oldest son and heading out into the parking lot, "just in case."

Dean watched his father disappear into the parking lot. "He's mad at me," he sighed, "again."

"Any idea why?" Sam ventured, looking through the duffel bag to see what all was inside.

"I let him take you. I wasn't paying close enough attention."

"I went to the bathroom, man," Sammy pointed out, "what were you supposed to do, follow me in?"

Dean shrugged. "He yelled at me. Slammed me up against the wall. If you hadn't walked in when you did, man… I don't know…"

Sam sighed, zipping up the bag and turning to face his brother. "If this works out," he began suddenly desperate to change the subject, "what're you gonna do? Without your, um, _edge_?"

"Well, I figure I'm no good as a hunter anymore, so I might just settle down. Once we get rid of this freak once and for all I'm thinking about heading out to Missouri. If I can't be a hunter, I might as well try to be a husband."

"Cassie?" Sam asked, staring at the older man.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Cassie. Who knows, maybe she'll like the new me. Think about it. We could get married, settle down, have kids. You know, I've always wanted kids. And you could go back to Stanford without having to feel guilty about leaving me all alone."

Sammy stared at him. _Guilty?_ He'd never thought about it until now, but he hadn't felt any guilt over leaving his family. He hadn't thought about them for two years. Dean had certainly been the farthest thing from his mind, and realizing that hurt. He had abandoned the man that had raised him and felt no remorse, though his brother had obviously been broken up about it.

"Sounds good," Sam muttered as their father reentered the room, "it's a great plan, man. I hope it makes you happy."


	13. Chapter 13

All rioght. Tome for another chapter. Thanks again to all of my faithful reviewers who never disappoint with their compliments! I love you guys!

* * *

Night had fallen while the three Winchester men waited in the Impala, watching the house for any signs of life. The plan was to break into the house that Dean's evil half was occupying and ambush him. With luck, everything would go their way.

John reached his hand into the pocket of his jacket, where a gun had been safely hidden away. Dean checked his own jacket pocket, his fingers caressing the wooden handle of the knife that his other half had used to kill so many innocent people. It would be fitting for him to perish by that blade.

"Ready?" John asked, his voice harsh in the still night air. His sons nodded. "Let's go."

Three car doors opened simultaneously and the men climbed out onto the pavement. They ran across the concrete, over the lawn, and stopped beside the house.

"There's window over here," Sam explained, leading the group around the side of the building, "it's how I escaped. It leads to the basement. When we get in there, I've gotta warn you, there's a body tied up in the corner."

Dean's eyes went wide. "I killed someone else?" he whispered.

"Three people," John confirmed, "I checked the records. A family bought this house a few months back. A couple and their young daughter. I'm sure they're all dead by now, aren't they, Sam?"

Sam nodded. "Yes, sir. He killed them all. Now, we're going to have to be pretty quiet to get in unnoticed. Come on." He pulled the window open and began to slid through.

"Wait," Dean hissed, "maybe I should go first. Just in case he's waiting."

Sammy nodded again and let his brother go through first. Dean slid through the small opening easily enough and landed on his feet in the basement. He looked around the dimly lit room, stepping forward to see around the couch, before turned back to the window.

"It's safe, guys," he said, "come on in."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a familiar voice said. Dean whirled around to find himself looking into the barrel of a handgun. "Someone could get hurt."

Sam bent back by the window and grabbed it, ready to pull it open and slide through as his brother's voice came through the glass. He was stopped, however, by strong hands on his shoulders.

"Don't," John cautioned, "don't do it, Sam."

"Dad, we can't just leave him in there, he'll-"

"It's a trap. Dean set a trap."

"Our Dean?" Sammy asked, confusion written in his green eyes, "I don't think he's capable-"

"The other one," John explained, "the evil one. Look through the window. There are two silhouettes. They're identical."

"We can't leave him," Sam insisted, "not now. Not with that maniac."

"We won't," John grinned, "we'll just use the front door."

"They're scared, Dean," the man smirked, his hazel eyes glistening maniacally in the small amount of light in the room, "they're scared of youOf _us. _Personally, I don't blame them. I'd be scared, too, living with a homicidal nutcase like us."

"They'll come. They're just waiting to get a good shot."

His evil half smirked. "A good shot, yeah. Dad's got great aim, doesn't he. Too bad he'll kill us both, huh? Sammy? Now, Sammy'd wait until you got far enough along in this master plan of yours before shooting. He's a real sensitive guy, isn't he? And such a high-pitched squeal of pain, too."

"A master plan?" Dean asked, shuddering slightly even though the room was warm, "you really are crazy. Paranoid, too, if you think we're plotting against you."

"I told him," the other man said, finally moving his weapon to lock eyes with his better half, "I told him what I'd found out. Of course he'll use it against me. So, come on, let's get on with this, because I really am getting tired of talking to myself."

His face set and determined, Dean pulled out the knife and sliced the old cut on his palm open.

"Perfect," his evil half said, "you've made this incredibly easy for me." He dropped his gun and grabbed at Dean's hand, getting a strong hold on it as their blood mixed. "Thanks a lot, Deanster."

Dean ripped his hand away, grinning broadly. "No, thank you. Really."

The evil man cocked an eyebrow and picked up his gun, taking a step toward his better half. "We're two separate people now," he muttered, "if you're trying to tell me that was all part of your plan, then I must tell you that Sammy's losing his touch. I'm going to kill you. It's going to hurt. Better still, it'll be a slow death, and while you die, I'm going to go upstairs. You know why? Because you deserve to die alone you lousy piece of shit. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Dean's grin never faltered as his evil half approached. Neither of them heard the door to the basement opening, neither saw the other two hunters enter. The gun was raised to the level of the man's stomach, but he didn't back down. He had a job to do, and in order to regain his family's love, he was going to have to do it right.

"Say good-bye, Dean," the evil man said, touching the barrel of the gun lightly at his better half's side.

"Good-bye, Dean," Dean smiled, plunging the knife deep into his evil half's side. He yanked it out as his victim looked down at his dark, blood-soaked shirt. Slowly, gasping, the evil man backed up to the wall, holding his hands protectively against his new wound.

Dean walked up to him and knocked the gun from his hands. "There's only enough room I this world for one Dean Winchester, my friend, and you, sadly, are not him."

The man smirked, his eyes still glistening malevolently. "Dad's never going to love you, you know, Never going to accept you."

"We'll see about that," Dean growled, his eyes tearing up as he watched a vital part of himself die.

Suddenly, a shot rang out in the basement, starling everyone present. Sam whipped his head around to stare at his father, who had his gun held out in front of him. A slight grin was forming on his face.

Dean gasped as the bulled ripped through his chest, the searing pain causing the tears he'd been trying to hold back to flow freely from his softened hazel eyes. He glanced down at his chest to see that the bullet had gone straight through him. He looked back at his evil half, whose wicked smirk was present even as the shallow bullet wound in his chest began to bleed.

Finally, Dean turned his head to look at the man who had shot him. It was his father, his own flesh and blood, the man that had made him everything he was. His father had shot him.

The world around him began to go dark, and Dean gave into it. What reason was there to live if your own family hated you enough to try and kill you? He fell slowly forward, never taking his eyes from his idol, the man he'd looked up to and respected. The man that had shot him stared back, his eyes cold and pitiless.


	14. Chapter 14

The final chapter. The end of the story. The completion of my plan to get everyone to hate John Winchester. Don't you just love it? Anywho, thanks again to everyone who read and reviewed! I really do appreciate it:)

* * *

The look on Dean's face as he fell back into his evil half almost stopped John's heart. It was as if everything the man had felt in his life, all the pain he'd secretly endured, the loneliness he'd been forced to carry, was finally visible. It hurt him to see his son look like that, hurt him to see the young man that had saved his life on more than one occasion feel that bad.

But he couldn't show emotion, couldn't portray the sick grief that filled his heart. Emotion was weakness. He'd taught Dean that lesson long ago, soon after Mary's death. You can't cry just because it hurts. It won't do anything to help.

He watched, finally lowering the gun, as Dean slumped forward, his own, deep bullet wound, one that went all the way through his muscular body, touching the shallower hole that had formed in the other man's chest. A blast of wind emanated from the two men as they slid down the wall. The room was suddenly filled a bright white light, as if an explosion had gone off. Then, everything was still, silence filled the room.

"Dad," Sammy muttered, staring at the man that lay alone on the floor, clad in a bloody white t-shirt and dark leather jacket, "dad, you shot him. You shot Dean."

John nodded as his youngest son rushed to the other man's limp body. "Wound-to-wound contact. It was the only thing that would put him back together, but they had to want to be one again. The evil one was too weak to fight, and the good one… well, he wanted to be able to make me proud again, didn't he?"

"Dad," Sam growled, cradling his brother broken and bloodied body in his arms, "you shot him in the heart."

"You're leaving?" Sam hissed, wanting to yell but knowing that he couldn't. Shouting was frowned upon in hospitals. "Now? He hasn't even woken up yet. Dad, you _shot_ him, I think you owe it to him to be there when he wakes up."

John shook his head. "I was in the middle of a job when he called me, Sam. I have to finish it."

"Can't it just wait another day?" Sam asked. They'd taken Dean to the hospital immediately following the fight in the basement, and he'd been rushed into surgery. Fortunately, the wound made by the knife hadn't been too deep, and the bullet had only grazed the hunter's heart. He'd been unconscious for most of the day, though. Now, Sam and his father were busy arguing outside his room.

"I'm sorry. But, listen, son, what I did back there… it was for the best. I know you don't think so now, but soon you'll see. Yes, I shot him. But it got him back together, didn't it? And, from what I gather, he won't remember anything. Nothing from the past month, anyway. No splitting, just an explosion and then waking up in a hospital."

"How am I going to explain the bullet hole, dad? The stitches in his side from the knife?"

"You'll think of something," John smiled, turning to leave.

Sam sighed, looking through the window at his brother, who lay motionless in the bed. "This is all your fault, you know that, right? The murderer, the nice guy. You made them both with your training and tough love. If it wasn't for you, this never would have happened to him."

The older man stopped walking and sighed, gazing steadily at his feet. "Yeah, I know that. I've known that for a while. This is just the first time I've been faced with it, and it's not what I thought it would be. Did I know I messed him up? Yes. Did I know that I'd ruined him like that? No, never in my wildest nightmares could I have imagined the kinds of things that go on inside that twisted head of his."

"You… you always knew you'd…?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I did. And I learned something these past couple of days. My oldest son is a wreck, a tortured human being with half a soul, and it's all my fault. You know what else I learned? I can't face it. What I've done to him, I just can't face it. That's why I have to go. So, um, don't tell him what happened here or in Onyx, all right? He doesn't deserve to know."

Sam watched his father walk away, considering everything the man had said. Was it true? Did he really know the full extent of the damage he'd dealt his son, or was he lying, trying to find an excuse to avoid an unpleasant situation.

Sighing, Sammy trudged into his brother's room and sat down in an uncomfortable plastic chair by the bed.

"Hey," Dean muttered, "what happened?"

"You don't remember?" Sam asked.

Dean sighed. "Seems like a nightmare, huh? You'd think two of me would be a good thing, but…"

"Everything?"

"From explosions, to gunshots," Dean nodded weakly, glancing at his chest, "yeah. Where's dad?"

"He, uh, he had to leave. He was in the middle of something when you called him away."

"Oh. That's cool. Yeah, he should finish that up. Make sure no one else dies."

Sam sighed, hanging his head. "We're not going to talk about this, are we?"

"Tale about what?" Dean asked, grabbing a small remote control off the table by his bed and clicking on the tiny TV set mounted to the wall.

Sam shook his head and smiled, looking up to see a commercial for a new TV station that was the result of a merger. "You know," he began after a short silence, "I haven't seen a commercial for Snuggles fabric softener in a while."

"Yeah," Dean nodded, "you're welcome." The brothers laughed, knowing that they were safe, whole, and together, and hoping that never changed.

* * *

"Falling faster, barely breathing 

Give me something to believe in

Tell me it's not all in my head

Take what's left of this man

Make me whole once again"

"What's Left of Me" -Nick Lachey


End file.
